Celtic Mist Ch. 02

Declan heard the steady tromp of boots along stone. The sound approached from the left then faded to the right as the guard went into the tunnel.

Declan sprinted up the stairs to the top of the battlement. He looked up at the northeast tower directly above him --- soaring into the night sky some fifty feet higher than the battlement. He swung the iron hook slightly, testing its weight. At that moment he comprehended the foolishness of this plan: 'twould assuredly take more than one attempt to land the hook properly --- if he could land it at all --- and each failure would end with it clanking loudly down onto the top of the wall.

Cursing to himself, he hastened back to the stairs and ducked down. He stared up at the tower, his mind racing. The roof of the castle and the towers had, just like the battlement, a defensive parapet with merlons and embrasures out of which to shoot arrows...nowadays rifles or cannons. This part of the castle was over four hundred years old, Brodie had told him. In former days when sieges were a normal part of castle life, archers would have been stationed on the roof of the castle as well as on the battlements. The roof of the castle was not currently patrolled by the guards, although Branagan had shown him the door that led to the stairway up: 'twas inside the tunnel, at the far, southeast end.

The footsteps passed by again. Declan waited a few minutes till they returned in the opposite direction and faded. He leapt up the stairs with the knapsack, confirmed the guard to have passed through the tunnel, then ran into it, stopping at a stout oak door at the far end. There was a rusty padlock on it. He used the grappling hook to snap the hasp from the wood, then darted inside and pulled the door shut behind him. 'Twas pitch black inside.

Setting the bag down and taking one coil of rope, he explored the darkness with his outstretched arms and gingerly sliding feet. Quickly he found the rise of a stone step. He felt his way up a staircase that wound round the exterior wall of the tower. There was no railing towards the center, and Declan hugged the outer stone wall as he ascended the dank-smelling tower. Higher up, he encountered arrow slits that let in a faint light. He lost track of the number of turns he made.

At last Declan reached the top, exiting the tower through a low archway. He was now on the roof of the castle. In the moonlight, he saw a square space walled by a crenulated parapet. The four towers at the corners of the square rose some six feet higher than roof, and each had a simple stone stair for access.

Climbing atop the northeast tower, he discovered a smaller square roof with a similar wall round the periphery. The wall was nigh two feet thick. On the side with the tower room window, he leant out of the embrasure gap just far enough to see down. Fifty feet below, he could see the walkway along the top of the battlement and the cannons forming black lines on the moonlit stone. He could not see the archway entrance into the tunnel, but knew it was directly below.

The tower window was also straight below, ten feet down, he estimated.

Declan drew back. Kneeling on the roof, he put his shoulder against the cold stone of the merlon above the window and leant into it with as much of his weight as possible. The stout wall seemed perfectly sound. He uncoiled the rope and wrapped it round the merlon, with the ends coming through the gaps of the embrasures on each side. He tied a knot, thus forming a loop around the section of the wall.

Locating the guard walking below, Declan waited till he disappeared into the tunnel, then dropped the long end of the rope over the side of the tower. He could not see the far end --- it was somewhere above the top of the battlement wall.

He sat in the gap in the parapet with his legs hanging, grasped the rope, and with a silent prayer, slid over the edge.

Over a hundred feet above the ground he hung, his shoulder against the stone side of the tower.

The rope creaked. He held his breath --- the loop and the wall held fast. Not chancing a look down, he started to lower himself, his arm and shoulder muscles clenched, his hands feeling for the knots. In the intensity of his concentration --- heart pounding and mind churning --- he scarce marked the burning protest of the lacerations on his back.

He was now in front of the tower window. 'Twas approximately two feet wide and three feet tall, with the two-foot-thick wall forming a deep sill. At the interior edge was a sturdy wood shutter. No light issued round it.

Pushing himself away from the tower with his feet, Declan generated a slight swing and succeeded in sitting upon the windowsill. Again, he waited till the guard was out of sight. He pushed against the shutter, but 'twould not open. Pressing his ear to the wood, he strained for any sound from within --- and heard none. He knocked upon the shutter. "Aoife?" he said in a low voice.

Silence.

He knocked again. "Aoife, are you there?"

"Who's that?" came a muted voice.

"Open the shutter."

"I can't. 'Tis locked."

He pushed on it again, harder, to no avail. "Stand back," he instructed. Grasping the rope again, he swung free of the window and pushed off the side of the tower. With a vigorous thrust of his legs, he achieved a more powerful swing, and careened feet first into the window opening. His boots crashed through the shutter --- the swing ended with him sitting on the sill with his feet hanging into the chamber inside.

Dropping down into the room, he beheld a few feet before him the pale shape of the lass Aoife O'Farrell, clad in her nightgown. She had somehow tied the torn front together. The dark room behind her was empty of furnishings. When she recognized him, she took a step back, her eyes narrowing.

"What the devil do you want?!" she spat. "Here to sample the wares, are ye?"

"Nay. I've come to hie you out of here."

"Did ye now?"

"Aye! Will ye not come, lass? If you stay, the Duke will...he'll violate you --- and so will the others!"

The glimmer of her eyes fixed upon him for several moments then turned to shadowed door behind her. When she spoke 'twas in a low voice devoid of emotion. "Aye, I'll come."

He beckoned her to the window. "Can you climb a rope?"

Aoife shrugged. "I shall." She climbed into the window and sat on the sill with her legs hanging out. Reaching past her, Declan snared the rope and handed it to her. "'Tis high. Just look at the stone before you and climb up --- grab the knots --- wait, not yet! There's a guard...wait...wait...aye, now!"

She scooted off the sill with a soft gasp; Declan climbed into the window. She was hanging from the rope with her legs wrapped round it. "Up ye go!" he urged in a low voice.

"I can't!" she said, struggling.

Christ! He thought quickly. "Can you climb down?"

She started to slide down, lowering one hand over the other.

"Aye, good! Hold fast and make haste! Wait for me at the bottom!"

Leaning out, he watched her progress, the pale spot of her gown receding into the darkness below. She moved quickly, thank God, and but seemed to fall the last few feet onto the top of battlement. To his relief she immediately got to her feet.

He grabbed the rope and followed her down. The rope ended several feet shy of the top of the wall and he jumped the rest of the way, landing next to the archway into the tunnel. "Are you well then?" he whispered.

Before she could respond, Declan heard approaching footsteps inside the tunnel. He and Aoife gaped at each other. Damn it all! Had he miscalculated? Had the guard turned early? There was not time to run to the stairs to hide!

He swept her into his arms, twisting so that his back was towards the tunnel, blocking a full view of her. Bending towards her, he pressed his lips to hers, simulating an ardent kiss. She struggled for a moment then froze as the heavy footsteps stopped behind them. Their lips remained touching, their tilted noses grazing...Declan was momentarily lost.

"You there!" a man barked. "Raise your hands!"

Declan straightened and looked over his shoulder, holding Aoife close with her face hidden against his chest. 'Twas Tim O'Keefe, pointing a flintlock at them. From the corner of his eye, Declan saw the end of the rope hanging against the side of the tower, some four feet above the guard's head.

"'Tis I, O'Keefe. Dinna shoot!" he said in a jesting tone.

O'Keefe at once relaxed and lowered his pistol. "Quickfist! What are ye doing up here? You're not on duty, are ye?" He leant to eye the girl in Declan's arms, then gave him a knowing smile.

Declan grinned. "I was just after showing this fair lassie where we patrol...erm...anything of note happening?"

O'Keefe shook his head. "Nay, a quiet night."

Declan looked down at Aoife, improvising. "'Tis not always so. Sometimes we must fight off miscreants."

She arched an eyebrow at him, her pale eyes glinting.

"Aye, it can be right dangerous on guard duty," O'Keefe offered, no doubt seeking to bolster Declan's apparent attempts to impress the lass.

Unsettled by Aoife's continued blank stare, Declan cleared his throat. "Well...ahem...we'll not detain you further. I just wanted to show her the fine prospect from up here."

"Aye, so there is. Here's to your prospects being equally fine." O'Keefe winked.

Declan nodded and winked back. With an arm round Aoife, he steered them towards the stairs. "Come, love. Let us go to the stable...and...erm...look at the horses."

At the bottom of the stairs Declan pulled Aoife back against the wall and waited. Then, signaling her to be silent, he led them back up the stairs partway. Crouching here again, he listened to O'Keefe pacing above. They were out of the tower but still needed to escape the castle.

Although the impromptu ploy had succeeded with O'Keefe, Declan could not risk a like bluster with the guards at the gatehouse. He knew not whether the news of his flogging had spread beyond the Crusaders...even if it had not, as a guard he was strictly prohibited from leaving the grounds after 10 o'clock, and only then when granted liberty. His original plan still seemed best.

When O'Keefe's footsteps receded into the tunnel, Declan tapped Aoife's shoulder and nodded up. They ran up the stairs to the battlement walkway. "Wait here," he whispered. Silently he sprinted through the tunnel and retrieved his knapsack and the second coil of rope from behind the door to the tower, then ran back. He threw a loop of rope round a merlon next to a cannon, secured it similarly to the rope on the roof, and tossed the coil over the outside of the wall.

"Climb down, quick, before he comes back! Wait for me on the ground."

At once she edged past the cannon and sat in the embrasure gap whilst he held the rope up for her. Grabbing it, she went over the edge. Declan watched till she reached the end, then slung his bag onto his back, wincing, and climbed after her --- hand over hand, his heart racing...they were almost free!

Halfway down, a motion on the ground caught his eye --- 'twas the lass running away! Christ! She was heading directly into the sightlines of the guards at the postern gate!

He scrambled even faster down the rope, dropping to the ground as soon as he could and bolting after her, unable to shout a warning. When he overtook her, he threw his arms round her and clapped a hand over her mouth lest she cry out. Holding her struggling body back against his chest, he turned them round. "This way," he rasped close to her ear.

He released her from his embrace but grabbed her small hand, pulling her as they backtracked, hugging the stone face of the battlements so as not to be seen by the guards above.

When they reached the sheltering canopy of a tree, Declan led them directly away from the wall, heading out into the pasture next to the castle. He veered from tree to tree till they were too far away in the dark to be seen from the battlements, then started into an open field...one hand holding hers and the other gripping the pistol as his eyes darted about.

"We need to get as far away as we can ere they discover you flown. They'll come after you, so they will," he muttered.

She yanked her hand from his and halted. "I'm returning to the farm," she stated. "Shoot me if you must."

In the darkness, her gleaming eyes were all blatant accusation, and Declan's shame rose anew at the atrocities committed at the farm. They were her family --- he could not deny her need to return, although he feared what they would find. Heading thence would indeed put distance between them and the castle, but 'twould likely be the first direction that any searchers would take.

He switched the gun to his other hand and glanced back towards the castle. After a moment he said, "Aye, let's go."

Declan oriented himself and turned slightly to the left. They set out across the field and presently intersected the main road, here going north to retrace the route of the night's earlier excursion, keeping a brisk pace and scanning the darkness round them.

On foot, the journey took nigh an hour and a half. In the last mile, even before they saw the farm, Declan felt a mounting dread as he detected the smell of smoke. 'Twas not the pleasant scent of a peat fire --- but an acrid, sickening odor that he had smelt once before in his life. Stronger and stronger it grew --- Aoife strode even faster, then they reached the top of a slight hill and beheld the farmhouse.

It was alight with fire --- albeit the low flames of a now ebbing fire. The thatched roof was gone, and thick smoke was billowing into the night sky from the shell of the stone walls. Aoife broke into a run towards the cottage; Declan raced after her. "Stay back!" he shouted.

The lass halted in the doorway, Declan coming to a stop directly behind her. The wood door, and any other combustibles were shrunken black objects enveloped in flames. Alas, the shapes of the bodies were still recognizable under the snapping flames, their blackened, charred limbs grotesquely contracted --- Lanigan, the child, and the dog upon the floor...her sister upon the smoldering remains of the bed.

Declan's stomach heaved. A wave of smoke swept over them. He grabbed Aoife's shoulders and pulled her away from the cottage, stumbling into the yard where they both collapsed coughing to their hands and knees on the soft earth.

In several moments, their coughs weakened, and the only sound was the crackling fire behind them. Declan staggered to his feet. "We must hie away from here," he said hoarsely, lifting her gently by the arm.

"Dinna touch me!" she choked, throwing his hand off. She stood and started walking. He hastened after her.

They took the road west, walking at a quick pace. For nigh an hour they traveled in silence, both similarly vigilant in the darkness, turning their heads to identify any motion, any light, any sound. Through rustling leaves, flitting bats, and snapping twigs under livestock hooves, Declan's hand remained twitchy upon the pistol. He almost fired upon a dark shape that darted onto the road before them, then recognized it as a fox.

Intermittently as they walked, he glanced in concern at the lass beside him. She was clad in naught but a thin nightgown --- she must be cold, although her mien betrayed nothing save dogged determination. He himself was fully dressed and was not impervious to the chill of the night. At length he cleared his throat. "Aoife, will you not take me great coat to warm ye?" He unslung his bag and pulled out the rolled-up garment.

She stared straight ahead and marched on. "I'll take nothing from ye."

He hesitated, then stuffed it back in the bag.

By and by, as he repeatedly surveyed the road behind them, Declan detected the pale, purple streaks of dawn on the horizon. His heartbeat quickened. How soon would Blaylock or Bruckton go to the tower room and discover Aoife gone? Or discover him gone? They would find the ropes...they would interrogate O'Keefe. How soon would the Crusaders be riding out after them?

The hazy light was increasing.

Declan stopped. "'Tis time we leave the road. The sun is rising." Looking to the right, he continued, "'Tis best to go north...keep heading further from the castle."

Aoife scanned to the left and right, then behind her. Her gaze halted upon the road directly behind them. Turning as well, Declan at once realized what had captured her notice. Shite! There in the dirt road, soft with recent rain, were their footprints --- large boots and small bare feet side by side! Shite! Shite! He groaned to himself. There was not time to backtrack to scuff them out. His eyes darted to each side of the road, then a thought struck him. He holstered his pistol.

"This way." Instead of right, he turned left --- south. They stepped off the road, and as they climbed over the stone wall alongside, he deliberately trod upon the top, marking the stone with a muddy boot print. They walked a few dozen paces into a grazing pasture, leaving an intermittent trail of footprints on the earth, interrupted by patches of grass and stone.

Reversing course and stepping only on grass, Declan led them back to the wall, where they sat and swung their legs over. They paused in the sheugh as he contemplated how to cross the road without a trace. "Stones," Aoife said quietly. He glanced at her. Stones...aye...clever girl! He turned to seize several flat stones from the wall behind them. One at a time he tossed them into the road to create steppingstones across the narrow dirt lane. "Over ye go, stay on grass on the other side."

She complied, jumping from stone to stone, and Declan followed her. At the second stone, he turned and picked up the first, brushing off the footprints with his sleeve and throwing it back to the base of the wall. He repeated with each subsequent stone. Once over the low stone wall on the north side of the road, they headed into the fields, avoiding patches of soft earth that would show footprints.

The purple-grey morning light steadily increased as they continued, yet Declan could make out little of the terrain in the dense, cool mist surrounding them. He could feel the mounting incline of the ground and could hear bleating about them --- occasionally sheep emerged from the mist as they passed close by.

Presently their pace slowed as the land grew yet steeper. They had left the sheep behind them in the lower elevations, and now were picking their way among lichen-spotted stones, pink blooming honeysuckle, purple heather, and blackthorn trees. Declan tempered his stride to match Aoife's as she negotiated the climb with her bare feet, moving surprisingly briskly, but occasionally faltering as she trod upon a sharp stone. He offered her his boots --- but she merely gave him a venomous look. Aye, she wanted nothing from him. In truth, given the difference in the size of their feet, his boots would be more of an encumbrance than an aid.

Over the next two hours the sun rose, and the mist gradually dissolved. Onward they climbed. Declan was numb to the pain of his lacerated back...numb to fatigue...indeed he could scarce form thoughts, so possessed was he by the drive to keep moving --- keep moving at all costs. To his admiration, the petite red-haired lass beside him did not flag either, but forged ahead, steadfast and silent.

Coming upon a sparkling ribbon of water tumbling down the mountainside among the rocks, Declan fortunately had presence of mind enough to stop to fill his wooden canteen. He held it out to Aoife, but she turned away, rebuffing his offering. Leaning her knee upon a stone alongside the stream, she bent forward and scooped water with her hands. Declan eyed her over his canteen, watching her drink. Even in his state of heightened vigilance, her unadorned beauty did not escape his notice.